


when you move, I move

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Jughead Jones, Consensual, F/M, First Time, Groping, Inspiration, Model Betty Cooper, Muse Betty Cooper, Obsession, One Shot, Praise Kink, Smut, Tactile, some kink, very light painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 10:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19249210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: “Was all this you?"“Technically, it’s all you." Their eyes meet again, snapping together like magnets. Lips parted, Betty eyes him with what he thinks is wonder. “But yes, I had the honor of putting you on canvas. Jughead Jones. It’s a pleasure to paint you. Obviously.”A ruby splotch colors her neck, almost the same size as his hand. He wants to fit his fingers along it, paint her skin and test the canvas of everything between them, how good they’d feel.





	when you move, I move

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone else think Jughead with all his rings looks like a sexy-ass art student? Anyway. Here there be smut. And manic!Jug. A million thanks to superstar beta @jandjsalmon for encouraging my madness. Hope you enjoy!  
> Loosely inspired by the Hozier song "Movement," and you can all thank @alicat-gotyourtongue for the exposure to a Hozier obsession that seeped into fic ^-^

Jughead’s a tactile person. The roll of the hard shaved edges of his pencil pressing his nails into his fingers, the dusty firmness of charcoal, the smooth crayon pushed into the crevices of his print, all of it makes him feel emotionally grounded. Mentally, he’s unhinged, lets go of everything outside of color, shapes, and lines.

 

When the door clicks open with their latest model, he barely even glances up, still rearranging his tools exactly where he wants them. Kelly green on the left. Charcoal black on the right. But there’s a glimmer of cotton-candy textured gold in his peripheral. _Blonde_ , he corrects, quickly getting back to his arrangement. The air feels thicker, the dusty rose gold spreading like a fog.

 

He reaches out for his milkshake, the condensation cool against his fingertips, the straw bending to his lips for a quick shot of vanilla bursting along his tongue.

 

“I still don’t know how you multi-task every class period.” Fangs gestures to the drink as Jughead puts it in its place. “Drawing and drinking don’t really seem like they go together.”

 

“ _Tell that to my father_ ,” he wants to say, instead, dismissing Fangs with: “I get thirsty. Need to keep my energy up.”

 

The teacher calls the class to attention. An impulse to inhale makes him stretch his shoulders, open his lungs searching for particles that will inspire him. Curling his nails into his palm, Jughead frowns, trying to focus. This is what they brought him here for. Scholarships. Character witnesses. Portraits. He needs to be able to draw real figures, recognizable ones for card games, for books, for the police, for birthday gifts and anniversaries. This is his livelihood. He’s already gotten plenty of pet portrait requests, but that’ll only keep him out of poverty for so long, and he’s not going to squander anything like his parents did. Give in to booze and print sales. But humans have evaded him lately. Hard, sharp lines that the teacher sighs over, disappointed in their lack of spirit. So is he.

 

He can do better. He knows he can.

 

People aren’t all flat lines. They have feelings. _Someone_ must.

 

_I can do this_ , he promises himself, taking deep breaths. The new model steps up onto the platform, her silk robe dangling just past her knees. 

 

Although she’s not making a production of it, Jughead can’t tear his eyes off of her, raking over every impressive inch as she reveals it, her breasts bobbing with one deep breath before the barrier’s pooled at her feet. There’s a warm glow to her skin, honey undertones in her hair. All of it looks soft. Warm. Flowing. Even her momentary smile hooks him, urging him forward with the desire to get a better look at her expression.

 

Her level gaze makes his throat run dry. The smell of lead fills his nostrils and he realizes that he’s put his slightly stained fingers to his lips. Adrenaline thumping in his veins, everything else disappears. There’s no way he can do this blonde warrior justice. No one can. But he’s sure as hell going to try. He’s not going to let this go away.

 

So he draws a feeling.

 

Her wavy hair. Sharp, angular jaw. Bowed lips. Beauty spot.

 

It feels like a jab right on his heart, darkening and sizzling in the back of his throat.

 

Every line is a caress. Part of him groans along her curves, but he keeps it buried deep inside. Lights it on fire and lets it come out his fingers, out with lead, with shapes. He can already see her in a thousand different scenarios. Queen of the underworld, on a bed of stone and skulls and silk. Free and calm under the sun, away from the harsh lines of the city.

 

No one’s and his.

 

Pages flutter at his feet as he goes through his organs, dripping them onto the canvas. Her hair. Her jaw. Her hands. Her spirit. Everything. God, he wants everything.

 

***

 

“One more minute,” Professor Blossoms announces, breaking his concentration.

 

_One_? That’s not enough. Not nearly enough. He’s got rough sketches and some coloring but nothing close to what he needs. The pages at his feet protest as he scrambles for purchase.

 

_One minute._

 

How would he spend one minute?

 

His teeth hurt and he realizes his whole face has been clenched for the full period. In a disappointed fluttering, all his joints seem to let go, tension draining.

 

_Look at her_.

 

Whatever feeling that’s glowing inside of him keeps looping, molten and bright as he studies the most interesting person he’s ever seen, _felt_.

 

She’s a masterpiece.

 

_Fifty seconds._

 

Her gaze slides over from its spot on the wall to him. _Him_. The subtle movement of her thighs spreading wider makes his fingers twitch. That’s not a stretch. It’s an instinct. And her breasts—they rise and fall gently like she’s trying to compose herself.

 

Oh to touch that breast, feel her lungs rise up underneath his fingertips. Or watch her skin pink under her own.

 

He nearly snaps his pencil in half in a blind attempt to capture that feeling.

 

_Longing. Desire. Barely-suppressed passion._

 

He doesn’t think he’s ever done something so messy and he doesn’t even care. Fuck Professor Blossom. Fuck Art and Humanity.

 

This is for her.

 

For him.

 

For—

 

“Time!” Professor Blossom calls, the class audibly setting their pencils down on the cool tray clips.

 

His thoughts taper off in a noisy streak of lead diverting onto the metal backing. The model starts, looking at him, and he feels that butterfly effect again. His chest spread open, vulnerable, some kind of fire burning within him.

 

“Thank you, Betty. You may redress.”

 

The blonde model’s lips part. His nostrils flare.

 

_Don’t leave. Don’t move._

 

Ultimately, when Professor Blossom clears her throat and starts talking again, the blonde swings one leg over and breaks eye contact in a strange, euphoric, melancholy rush that makes him feel like he’s drowning, his heart shattered by a baseball bat.

 

_She’s a model, you idiot,_ he chides, _you can’t keep her._

 

He wants to.

 

To his left, Fangs clears his throat, eyeing the beautiful chaos of his station. “That’s a lot of sketches.”

 

Startled, Jughead looks down where his pages litter the ground like confetti. “Not nearly enough. But the muses were kind to me today.”

 

Cracking a grin, Fangs shakes his head and sets to tidying his own station. Professor Blossom halfheartedly reminds them about submissions due in a week for the art show. Not like Jughead needs another panel telling him that he clearly knows how to capture the spirit of dogs but not of people.

 

Still, his pulse beats hard in his ears as he tries to collect his thoughts, carefully arranging his bag.

 

He feels someone loitering. _Lingering_ to see his feelings, his drawings. His new private obsession.

 

“What?” he snaps.

 

His veins run cold when he looks up, hands full of his sketches, to see the model fully-clothed and regarding him with doe-eyed, level curiosity.

 

Seconds tick by in heartbeats, his esophagus closing as his nostrils flare in the futile attempt to gather whatever aura she emanates. _Betty_ , Professor Blossom had called her.

 

_Relax_ , he warns himself, _you’re too intense._ He’s fully aware that his brows are knit tightly together, that he’s staring at her.

 

After a few moments burning under each other’s direct gaze, she turns away, diverting whatever secret they’re a part of. “Your milkshake...”

 

He blinks, dumbfounded. “My…?” The gloopy vanilla mess has long since melted and he feels a bizarre sense of dissociation about the whole thing. That’s not who he is. A boy who abandons his milkshake. “I…forgot.”

 

She nods with some guarded sense of knowing. “Distracted?”

 

“Inspired,” he clips back, mouth quirking upwards in a self-deprecating smirk at his own admission.

 

Her neck bows forward in delight. His chest strains, as do his fingers.

 

_Capture the surprised delight in her eyes. The tempting little smile. It’s yours, Jughead. It’s yours and it’s hers and—_

 

Someone bumps into her shoulder on the way out, knocking them both out of their reverie. “Excuse me,” Ethel clips rather unkindly. The tendons in his neck throb with the urge to yell at her, throw his stool at her stupid face for treating this perfect muse like she’s nothing but a sentient fruit basket in the way.

 

Whatever flattery Betty absorbed from his inspiration seems to run out, hips shifting until her weight is evenly balanced. “Sorry. Glad I could help. I’m sure whatever you choose to _—_ to finish, it’ll be amazing.”

 

He can’t blink, can’t think anything useful beyond how lovely she is, how unusual _all_ of this is. That he’s found a muse. “Thanks.”

 

Biting her lip, Betty seems to try to quell down a blush before turning away.

 

She’s leaving; his angel and inspiration is leaving. Fear grips him so tightly that he shivers, his throat closing, eyes going wide and desperate in a silent plea.

 

_Don’t go._

 

His knees tremble with the urge to follow her. To run out and move with her, wrap his hand around her wrist and ask her to stay. But a tall fellow with a clean-cut East Coast vibe looks like he’s waiting for her outside, and even though Jughead’s not sensing any kind of electricity between them, he’s still nervous to impose, rolling a pen along his fingertips for grounding.

 

When she’s almost at the door, Betty swipes her hair into a ponytail, the streaks of her natural highlights entrancing him. She turns and offers a smile to Professor Blossom, a lingering glance to Jughead that almost makes him whimper, and then she’s gone.

 

Nausea overwhelms him to the point black spots prickle the edge of his vision. He needs gold. Dusty rose. He needs to know her. It’s horrible of him to want to, even. They’re never supposed to approach the models. It’s a job. Professional. He doesn’t _want_ people. He’s supposed to move them.

 

A shaky breath tumbles out of his lips and Jughead curls his shoulders inward, protective, holding himself together. He takes control the only way he knows how. Gripping his pen, he slams into a new drawing. That smile. Those eyes.

 

_Don’t leave me._

 

Desperate, manic, he shades the curve of her jaw. The eight million tiny transactions between his eye and heart.

 

When his pulse slows, he pulls back, his whole body sticky despite the chill of air conditioning blasting in the space. He’d happily put his blood on the page, watch it spatter and soak into the lines of Betty’s elegance. The level of his possession terrifies him.

 

Wiping his brow, still shaking, he looks at his collection of _her_.

 

_Betty._

 

“Very nice,” Professor Blossom muses, like he hasn’t just ripped his body from its prison and put it on a page. Gritting his teeth, Jughead wipes his palms, not wanting to get her visage smudged by his sweat. “You should submit this.”

 

He freezes. A human? A goddess? Submit _her_?

 

His gaze rakes over the collage of chaos.

 

_Nude_?

 

“This is the most emotion I’ve ever seen from you. It’s beautiful. I’d seriously consider it. Maybe add color to a few, see how that goes.”

 

“But she left,” he protests, saliva sharp and bitter on his tongue.

 

He could use his imagination. Feeling. Memory, even as his chest tightens.

 

Professor Blossom shrugs, neutral. “It’s just a suggestion.”

 

He looks back at the soft lines looking up at him, reigniting his imagination.

 

“Okay.”

 

///

 

He’s been holed up all weekend, slogging through his homework, sketching other people, his elbow jerking with every stroke. It’s not what he needs. Finally, he shoves everything else aside, laying out a canvas on the floor and pulling off his layers until he’s just in his paint-splattered jeans and the dirty wife beater. His rings feel thick and steady. What he needs is color. Feeling.

 

A burst of relief slicks up along the side of his face as the rosy pink hits the canvas. Peachy cheeks, a challenging brow.

 

_I love you_ , is the strange sentiment, the bizarre thought rolling in his brain. That this is relief. This is clarity.

 

He keeps going until the sun’s glow turns neon and harsh and back again. Music blasts from his laptop, his stomach joining a chorus of groans as he sacrifices himself to the art of a muse.

 

When he pulls back, his shoulders, arms, and wrist ache. But it’s _beautiful_. Coughing, he tries not to cry, the sense of accomplishment overwhelming. That’s a _feeling_. He vows to submit it before he can back out. Veins singing, ringing in his ears, he trembles, unbuttoning his jeans. He’s only done this a few times before. It makes him feel sick, embarrassed. But right now it’s what he needs. His body’s telling him to. Careless of his calloused, stained hands, Jughead swipes his own fluids down his length, letting his eyes roll back with the image of a muted gold girl imprinted on the back of his lids, burning in his mind.

 

_Fuck me_ , he begs whatever universal power she holds over him.

 

His imagination stirs with her smile, better than any movie he’s tried to watch for inspiration. Waves of sensation keep swelling inside of him. It’s not her nudity that moves him. It’s something else. He just keeps thinking of the vanilla milkshake pooled in its own condensation. The magnetic electricity in the air when she was present. Her sweet, velvet voice. Those sharp, intelligent eyes.

 

_Move me, baby._

 

It hits him violently, the orgasm drawing a whimpered grunt as he spills in spurts, dripping adoration.

 

The high tremors through his body, come leaking from his tip as his thoughts collect and reassemble in the starbursts. There’s no more tension in his shoulders. No tension anywhere. Just tingly, sated warmth.

 

His milky liquid’s landed on the edges of the canvas. It adds texture. Still, it’s not _paint_ , technically, and reaches for a rag to clean it up.

 

_But..._ he wonders _...but…_

 

Maybe they’re a part of each other.

 

///

 

The insanity dials down as the week disappears. There are other things he submits and draws. A black and white canvas of her silhouette with a ponytail. Abstract images of her. The paintings and sketches just flow out of him like she’s burned away whatever barrier was happening between feeling and focus. Accepted.

 

So he puts on his dark blue button-down shirt, rolls up his suspenders, and cleans his beanie and rings for the presentation just in case a gallery wants to take him on. He’s nervous about what to say.

 

_What inspired you?_ They might ask. _She did._

 

Struck him with lightning and seeped into his veins.

 

Exhaling sharply, he tries to enjoy his success, brace himself for shaking hands and making pretentious chit-chat. Maybe he can get away with lurking by the refreshments.

 

Seeing his inspiration hung proudly under lights makes it hard for him to breathe. He almost wants to touch the canvas, run his hands along the paint grooves and feel if she’s as warm as she looks.

 

At least it makes him feel something.

 

Maybe it always will.

 

Thick, warm, gel-like heat lingers under his fingertips, so he grabs a cup of ice water and peruses the other exhibits, chatting with Fangs about his ink stamp creations, but he keeps getting this horrible anxiety that something’s missing. That he needs to be by his paintings.

 

“Now _this_ is the kind of art I’m here for.”

 

Jughead lifts his chin from his phone, trying to subtly eavesdrop on the long-haired, sharp-dressed woman waving a glass of wine in front of Betty’s portraits.

 

“Sexy, intelligent, _powerful_ women. Although your father usually prefers the gallery to hold brunettes,” the woman corrects for the benefit of what’s probably her daughter if the familial resemblance is to be trusted. “What do you think, mija?”

 

“I think she’s gorgeous,” the girl in pearls declares, like that’s the highest praise in the world. And that’s _fine_ , but he sort of hopes other people _feel_ something beyond primal appreciation for someone so beautiful, even if it’s something he felt, too.

 

“It’s better than anything else we’ve seen this week. What do you think? Should I spring for a few for the sitting room? Or group them as something to hang in the galleries?”

 

As if he’d part with an actual piece of himself.

 

How are artists supposed to _sell_ their souls, their art? The pet portraits are one thing. They’re contracted. But Betty? No. Never.

 

He can’t.

 

‘ _Exposure’_ be damned.

 

Leaning forward, the women sip their wine and discuss different color palettes and pricing while he tries to come up with a way to get out of selling without pissing them off. They carry the rich self-confidence that can afford to buy things off of walls, commission portraits of each other for the entryways.

 

“Jughead Jones?” the daughter reads aloud, “Interesting name.”

 

“He’s an artist,” the mother shrugs by way of explanation, turning to scan the name tags all the artists have been forced to wear. He’s _almost_ able to avoid them and regroup after stepping behind a pack of loiterers, but the women manage to catch up to him at the bar. “Excuse me, Jughead? Jones?” Clenching his jaw, Jughead glances at the exit but forces himself to nod.

 

“I’m Hermione Lodge, and this is my daughter, Veronica. We _love_ your paintings.” She gestures with her hand, dull bracelets and rings barely shimmering in the light. The diamonds are clear like glass instead of sparkling like the sea.

 

“Thank you,” he manages, pushing aside his desire to melt into the wall, protect his paintings from their appraising gazes.

 

They like her, too.

 

They don’t _love_ her, maybe, but they like her. That’s enough for now.

 

“We were wondering, how much would it be for the set?”

 

His eyebrows pop up in surprise, chest closing, guarded. “You want all of them?”

 

“Yes, they’re beautiful.”

 

“She is, but unfortunately those particular paintings are not for sale. They’re already part of a personal collection.”

 

The daughter narrows her gaze on him, swirling the champagne she’s probably too young for and has been guzzling since she was twelve raiding her daddy’s liquor cabinet. “ _Oh_. Is she your girlfriend or something?”

 

Warring desires to press his lips to the canvas and crunch glass shards with his teeth pulse in his brain, fingers tightening on his water glass.

 

Hermione straightens her posture, swiftly appraising the situation. “In that case, do you accept commissions?” Veronica looks slightly scandalized. “Not of nudes, although they’re beautiful. Maybe your model in another setting, or maybe a portrait of one of us--of our family?”

 

“I...guess,” he frowns, not sure how to interpret that or if he’d even be able to replicate the feelings Betty brings out in him. Still, these women are clearly loaded, so it’s something to consider.

 

Hermione hands him a card, absently rambling off ideas of sketches or portraits or sitting rooms and he nods, attention wavering as the women talk about themselves and whoever their very important fellow art enthusiast and husband/Daddy is.

 

He catches a glimpse of blonde. Of gold.

 

_Come back_ , he thinks, barely managing a, “Thanks, let’s get in touch on those details,” and a head nod to the Lodges before he starts working through the crowd, bumping shoulders and arms in his pursuit of sunshine as it disappears around the pillars. He’s trying not to gallop in the possibility that it’s her. A sparkle of electricity follows in her wake--what _could_ be her wake, although he can’t imagine he’d feel this same pull after anyone else.

 

The chase comes to a grinding halt in the east side of the gallery.

 

His golden girl’s silhouette stands out amongst the many. Her whole visage so bright. A temple before her. Worship. His, for her.

 

_Please don’t hate me_ , he begs, creeping forward, hoping he can see her face without coming across quite as enraptured as he is.

 

But she’s captivated. Lips parted, openly searching the paintings, her fingers trailing and fiddling with a key necklace at her breast. The low-cut dress, heels, jewelry, and makeup imply that she dressed up for this.

 

_For me?_ His swollen heart hopes idly.

 

Not that she’d remember him more than the crazy boy with the melted milkshake and scattered pages of adoration at her feet.

 

“What do you think?” He’s surprised by the smooth, soft quality of his own voice.

 

She jumps, looking over her shoulder at him, and the sparks climb high in his throat, burning him again. What he’d give just to kiss her, grope her over her dress, fuck her against the wall until she cries out his name and their slick joins the tribute to her. But he's not great with people. Avoids public displays of intimacy. Would hate to be the guy to kiss a girl who didn’t want him.

 

So he grips his cup of water a little tighter, the other dragging along his suspenders for something to hold onto.

 

Her eyelashes are even longer today with what he assumes is the help of mascara, gaze dragging down to his lips, and he can’t help but take another step towards her until there’s maybe only a foot between them. She tears her eyes off of him, gesturing to her images.

 

“Was all this you?"

 

“Technically, it’s all you." Their eyes meet again, snapping together like magnets. Lips parted, Betty eyes him with what he thinks is wonder. “But yes, I had the honor of putting you on canvas. Jughead Jones. It’s a pleasure to paint you. Obviously.”

 

A ruby splotch colors her neck, almost the same size as his hand. He wants to fit his fingers along it, paint her skin and test the canvas of everything between them, how good they’d _feel_.

 

_Don’t be a perv_ , he warns himself, the first time he’s ever needed to.

 

She winds a strand of hair behind her ear, putting more of that pretty neck on display. “I’m Betty Cooper, just in case--maybe you didn’t know that. You’re very talented.” Her hands pull down the hem of her dress, covering maybe an inch more of sculpted thigh and bringing her breasts more to the forefront. It’s all beautiful. Every single shade. “How did you get these all done so fast? I didn’t see you in class.”

 

“I was inspired.” He clears his throat, trying and failing to maintain eye contact. “I took class time to work on the art show submission. Or domination, depending on how you want to look at it.” She cracks a grin, and sunshine might as well be radiating out of her teeth. A symphony. Something dark crawls its way out of his chest in the desire to lean over and ask her what she prefers. But his brain pulls back on his lust, asking out loud, “How did you know I wasn’t there? Usually the models only sit once.”

 

“Oh, I was just--I was around,” she blushes, turning back to the paintings and twisting her hair.

 

“Good. I’d hate to hear that I missed another opportunity to bask in your presence.”

 

“I’m not sure about that. No one else seemed to be as, um, _affected_ as you. You’re very passionate. Focused. You must’ve used a third of your sketchbook in our sitting.” She smiles, the sight of it sending a shockwave through his chest. It’s like he can _feel_ his pupils dilating to take more of her in. “I’m honored our little session turned into so much beauty.”

 

“Feeling,” he adds hoarsely.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“It’s not just beauty. Although you are beautiful,” he admits, narrowing the space between them until their shoulders touch and he’s grounded, moored. The urge to bend down and suck her rosy skin makes his chest hurt. “It’s feeling.”

 

“Oh?” The slightly lower, husky tone she’s taken makes him think maybe he’s got half a chance. That dark shade over the meadow green sparkling up at him keeps shifting, reflecting his lust back at him even as she rubs her arm along his. “And how did you feel?”

 

The mist of gold fills his lungs with the bright short-lived dazzle of sparklers.

 

“Vibrant. Alive.”

 

Her grin breaks wide, almost like she’s about to laugh.

 

“Look at these paintings. If you’d seen _you,_ wouldn’t you feel the same? When you look at them now, forget what you _see_ , what do you _feel?_ ”

 

“I don’t know,” she admits, glancing from the glorious canvases back to him. “I think the most ‘appropriate’ answer is _good_.”

 

He turns so his chest is against her shoulder. “Fuck ‘appropriate.’ Tell me how you really feel.” That dark marble living inside of her slides along his throat. He can almost taste it on his tongue. “I can take it.” Pulling at his lips, he tries to read her. But her gaze slips onto his mouth, her chest raising in a sharp inhale, and he’s distracted by desire.

 

“I feel unbound.” All his organs uncoil like they’re about to float upwards, take flight. “You must have felt so...powerful. Emboldened or passionate.” Curious, she turns to him, shoulder scraping a suspender against his nipple. He’s not even sure when it got hard enough to _notice_ through his shirt. “Is that what having inspiration feels like? Is it more like a wildfire or is it something like--”

 

“Clarity?” They nod, one after the other. “It’s like getting rid of everything that doesn’t matter. All the noise. All the chaos drowns away amidst this idea. This _feeling_ ,” he emphasizes, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of her arm as the other hand gestures to the exhibit, his gaze still fixed firmly on her face.

 

Her flesh is warm, but she shivers nonetheless, breaking out in little goosebumps that have his brain cataloging all the ways he could get that texture on canvas. If he had a coat he’d offer it to her, but as it is, all he has are his hands, and he’d lay them on her anywhere she wanted. “Would you like me to…?” He mimes rubbing her arms.

 

“Oh, you don’t have to.” She trails off, biting her lip. “But yes, please. That might be nice. I forgot how cold it is in the gallery. Should have brought a jacket.”

 

Once he touches her for real, he’s not sure he can go back to life before, making do with imagining her skin under his fingertips instead of _feeling_ it. She stares at him, the deep sea green drowning him until he reaches for the anchor of her body, submerging them both in pleasant warmth.

 

“I’ve got you,” he says softly.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Their soft intimacies trail into walking around the other exhibits, but he’s not sure either of them can focus. A few people glance at her in recognition, his muse and angel, the most wonderful thing in the gallery, if not the world, but she’s distracted. She keeps slowing down just enough that he can rub her arm or catch the small of her back. It’s like she wants him to guide her and walk by her side. They whisper and lean in close together as she lets him know how each piece makes her feel, and he finds himself willing enough to do the same. It’s vulnerable and raw and he fucking loves it, twisting his fingers into her long wavy hair and watching his rings and flesh glint amidst the gold. He wants to hold her forever.

 

“I can give you whichever ones you want, you know. If you want any,” he tells her, referring to the idolized tributes on the wall as they wander back to it. A question hovers just behind her eyes, elbow tucked into his side, and he tries to head it off. “They’re yours. I mean, they’re you, but they’re yours, too. Anything you want. It’s yours.”

 

“Anything?” she repeats, neck long and elegant as she gazes up at him, eyes flashing. At his nod, he’s ready to lay down his body. Strangely enough, she picks it. “I wonder, Jughead, do you have any other drawings of me at your apartment?”

 

She knows he does.

 

As her teeth graze her lower lip, she pushes closer into him. “Because I was thinking...maybe if I had a better idea of the whole package...I might be able to make a better informed decision.”

 

“The whole package?” he repeats, throat dry. She nods, not quite brave enough to make eye contact after that one. “Yeah. Anything. Come on over. I’ll walk you. Now?”

 

“Now,” she agrees, “But let’s take a picture in front of your work--if you don’t mind.”

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

His hand winds around her back, edging the lining of her dress as he smiles into oblivion. Surrounded by Betty.

 

“I’ll want a copy of that.”

 

Her gaze hooks right up his gut and drags him open again. “Okay. What’s your number?”

 

Grinning, he takes her phone and enters it, helping her press send so his phone pings. Their first message. A photo of _them_.

 

Now they can contact each other whenever they want to. The power of possibility makes him giddy.

 

They hurry out the door, Jughead snagging a few appetizers off the trays on the way out for sustenance. He texts his roommate asking him to leave until further notice, quickly receiving an _OMG_ along with emojis implying some sort of celebration, to which Jughead rolls his eyes and stuffs his phone in his pocket.

 

“Someone expecting you?” she asks, calves rippling with every step in her heels. He misses her bare feet from the drawing session and his imagination, longs to have them on his floorboards, in his bed, tucked safe on something soft.

 

He draws her closer to his side. “No. Just checking on my roommate to make sure we won’t be disturbed. For the--if you wanted to go through my portfolio…”

 

“Oh, okay,” she laughs, sounding relieved. “No one’s--I don’t need to check in with anyone either, in case things run late.” Clearing her throat, Betty looks ahead, both of them marching forward with a new assuredness. He’s thankful that his intuition was right about the boy outside the classroom and considers asking her about him in general. It’s a friend, obviously. Not someone she’d wait outside a classroom for, looking for him the way she looked for Jughead. The way she looks at him now. Hungry. Longing. Just like him.

 

They’re teetering on the edge of wanting to know everything and not wanting to burst this bubble of feeling, so he limits the conversation and rubs light little circles on her back.

 

By the time they get to his room, they’re both shaking. At least on his end, it’s not from the cold. It’s energy, pure and simple, building and simmering with the urge to keep her at his side, to make everything brighter: in color, in feeling.

 

Although Betty texts someone his address (probably for safety, _good girl_ ), she seems completely at ease slipping off her shoes and padding around the place. His roommate must’ve tidied up a tad before he left, which Jughead appreciates.

 

“You want anything to drink or eat?” he asks, already itching to put his mouth on her, searching the fridge for anything that might distract him from hauling her up into his arms and toppling into the bedroom.

 

“No thank you, I’m fine. That cheese and wine really filled me up,” she jokes, turning back around to lift her hair off her neck and look at the walls, where he’s hung various inspirations and sketches.

 

“That was before you,” he starts, approaching from behind to wrap her in a hug. He thinks they can do that now, and before his anxiety can flare up, she reassures him with a squeeze on his forearm, leaning her head back on his shoulder. “Before my muse.”

 

“Is that how you want people to categorize your art? Before and after your muse?”

 

“It will be. You changed things,” he murmurs, head dipping into the crevice of her neck and shoulder.

 

Shuddering underneath him, Betty clasps his hands. “Show me.”

 

He hesitates, not wanting to leave the warmth of her body, but needing to please her. After a moment, he takes her hand and leads her to the bedroom where his sketchbook lays on the desk. “Here,” he offers, handing her its contents, loose papers tucked carefully in its folders. A weight is lifted off his shoulders, that buoyant feeling lifting him up from his toes again. The lightness carries him back on the bed, even as he lays off his suspenders, undoes his shirt, gets _comfortable_. Before he has a chance to breathe a sigh of relief, Betty’s big, dark eyes are on him, her body positioned between his legs.

 

He looks up in surprised veneration. “What?”

 

“Move,” she says softly, pushing his legs open wider with her knees.

 

There’s no protest, no thought beyond _come to me_ as she turns around and presses her ass right against his crotch, scooting them both back in the bed so she can lay out his heart on her lap.

 

Her fingers trace the edge of his sketchbook. Inhaling deeply, he feels a deep sense of calm, and leans over her shoulder to look at the pages with her. It’s so transcendent, tracing her arm like this, her back against his chest. She tethers him, his heart, to the present.

 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing her shoulder, barely even looking at the images of her in the book. In reality she’s so much better. “I could never do you justice.”

 

“Juggie,” she breathes, her shoulders rolling back into him. “You’re amazing. Every single one of your pieces. You’re so sharp, or sensitive. You _see_ things.”

 

“Some more than others.” He wraps his arms tight around her waist, nuzzling in. This is heaven.

 

“Some of the poses...they’re from your imagination, right? Because, I mean, I didn’t sit that way during the session.”

 

“Yes, I have a, um, an active imagination,” he chuckles. “I couldn’t get everything right, but…”

 

The gap between their faces narrows into almost nothing as she peers over her shoulder at him, his awkward smirk fading as he gets lost in proximity. “What would you want? To get right, I mean?” They edge closer, gazes flicking from each other’s eyes to their lips. “Was there a certain position you wanted to see me in?”

 

“Yes,” he offers, voice thick with desire. “Just like this.”

 

He’s not sure who leans in first, but her hand winds back to pull him closer, his creeping up to her jaw, and they kiss. Guided, gently, their lips meet softer and smoother than he could’ve ever imagined. His mouth feels like it swells and gets sweeter, ripe for the picking as she plies it with her own. The desire gets thicker, kisses wading from gentle and reverent to hard and demanding, her nails dragging along his scalp, his fingers bruising her jaw.

 

He’s very aware of his thickening cock pressing uncomfortably against his zipper, probably digging into her back. But mostly he just feels _Betty_. This liquid squiggle of hot molten paint staining his lips and dripping down his chest in thick, spreading desire. His hand trickles up past her ribs, ghosting over her breast. At her little gasp, he launches forward, trying to pry it back from her lungs. They kiss passionately until her moans are muffled and he wonders if she can _breathe_ because he’s certainly stopped trying to.

 

“You okay?” he asks, barely able to pull away enough to speak before she’s dragging him back to her.

 

“Yeah--yes.”

 

Lost in a moan, in her sweet caress, Jughead forgets himself and gropes her breast. She jerks in surprise, but angles closer to give him better access to the soft flesh under her dress.

 

“No bra?” he asks, genuinely surprised and awed.

 

Her teeth pick at her swollen berry lips. “Not tonight.”

 

“Lucky me.”

 

They grin into the next kiss, closing together so naturally it’s like bodies were _made_ for this. Kneading her breast feels better than slathering paint on a canvas. His other hand lingers on her neck, squeezing affectionately against her little whimper until it slides down to reach her other breast. The firmness of her nipples under his fingers licks a moan of approval up both of their throats. It fuels him, knowing that the _feeling_ is something he can paint now. The rush of having her breast in hand, of having her body push and lean against him. Of having _Betty_ gasp into his open mouth, her tongue slick and hot against his.

 

“Touch me,” she begs.

 

He squeezes, the pressure hard and unrelenting, gathering the courage to slip under the sides of her dress and touch the bare flesh underneath. Her back arches like he’s struck her, lightning cackling in his groin.

 

“Juggie--” she gasps, hands over his, encouraging his rough kneading. “Yes.”

 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

 

“ _Please_...”

 

He groans, biting her ear, her neck, thumbs rubbing roughly over her nipples until she’s basically mewling at him.

 

“Up, lean up. There’s a good girl,” he encourages, noting the way her thighs squeeze together at the praise. “My angel.” She carefully places his sketchbook to the side so it won’t be tousled in their adventure. The consideration earns her another shoulder kiss, her body bending under his touch, yearning for more. “So sweet. I want all that sweetness, Betty, I want to lap it up until I’m coated in it.” A strangled moan vibrates off the girl in his arms, her ass rubbing impatiently against his crotch. “I want you bare again, Betty. You think you can do that for me?”

 

She nods, breathless, unclasping her dress far quicker than he ever could and shoving it down to her waist. He’s tempted to grab her again now that the flesh is so close, but she scoots forward with eagerness to get the rest of it off, so he holds up her hips and watches the perfect melodic sway of her hips and she wiggles that and her cream-colored lacy underwear off. The _scent_ of her is overwhelming up close.

 

Maybe she wore this for him.

 

Unable to contain himself, he scoots forward on the bed, mouthing at her back in desperation.

 

He wants to be under her. His mouth lapping at the hidden parts of her he has yet to see, the wonders that kept Georgia O’Keefe inspired for years, and he’s certain she never had a lover, a muse, like Betty.

 

“You’re so good for me,” he praises, kneading her hips. “I’d lay you on a canvas and fuck you until the paint bleeds. Until you’ve come so many times that your scent stains my hands like ink. Would you like that?”

 

“Yes,” she chokes, knees trembling. “Fuck me...touch me, please.”

 

His fingers skid down her sides, too hard for a tickle but probably still lighter than she needs. He just wants a better idea of how to please her. To make this as holy for her as it will be for him. “You use such nice words, like _please_. You like being a good girl for me?”

 

“Y--yes,” she admits, swallowing hard. Her whole body erupting in little primrose blushes.

 

“What else do you like?”

 

“I like--I liked it when you touched my breasts--when you pulled.”

 

“You like a little pain?” he clarifies, curious more than anything else.

 

She nods.

 

“You’ll tell me what’s too much, okay? I don’t know--we’ll take it as goes,” he murmurs, kissing the gentle bow of her tailbone. “You like this?” His hand slaps hard against her backside. She gasps, foot going out to catch herself, but he’s right there, holding her hip, steadying her. He rubs her cheek in adoration.

 

“How did that feel?”

 

“Good,” she breathes. “Really good.”

 

“You want me to do it again?”

 

“Yeah. Yes, please,” she corrects, looking over her shoulder and fixing him with the most seductive look he’s ever seen.

 

“Fuck, you’re good. Such a good girl, saying please,” he tells her, keeping eye contact as the hand not on her hips reaches around to pluck at her nipple again. She moans, spreading her stance for him, and he’s hit with a wave of arousal so hard that he can’t wait to slap her again, turn that flesh a nice, rosy pink.

 

“Fuck,” she hisses, bending her ass right in his face.

 

“Careful, or I’ll eat you out right here,” he warns. His whole body feels like it’s gleaming, rippling with life and need and fire. “You’re so much better than my imagination.” He kneads her ass, worshipping that it’s his to touch--at least tonight. But forever, too, his heart reminds him. His mind will make sure of it.

 

His fingers slide along her slit, rocking back and forth to test how beautifully wet she is.

 

“God, no.” Her little groan surprises him, and he loses his giddiness to concern. 

 

“No?” He drops his hands from her skin, scooting back on the bed. Arousal glistens between her legs and his tongue swells with the urge to lap at it.

 

“I just...” She turns, dew on her eyelashes, skin flush and warm and beautiful, and there’s a horrible moment he thinks he’s made her upset. “I want to see you when you move inside of me for the first time.”

 

They stare at each other, bewitched, bodies laid on coals, and he offers her a hand. “Come here.”

 

With an assuredness that would certainly bring him to his knees had he been standing, Betty takes his hand and pushes it against her warm, waiting cunt. The dewy curls, the waiting heat underneath.

 

“Oh, god,” he groans, unzipping his pants and palming himself for relief as his fingers creep deeper into her.

 

“The first time we met, I was worried that everyone could see. The more you drew, the more you looked at me--the more I--I wanted you,” she gasps, her hands shooting out to steady herself against his forearm as his knuckles graze her clit.

 

Now he understands, he thinks, how badly she needed this. That she felt it as much as him. “I’m sorry for making you wait, Betty. If I’d known how you needed me, I would’ve asked you home the first day we met.”

 

“Why didn’t you?” she asks, eyes blazing amidst the slow stretch inside of her.

 

He stops moving, chest broken open. “You left.”

 

With a ferocity he doesn’t understand, Betty kisses him, grabs onto his shirt and shoves it past his shoulders.

 

“What are you--?” His fingers leave the warmth of her body as she crawls forward on her knees, breasts in his face, pushing at his clothes.

 

“I came back for you and you weren’t there. But do you know what I did when I went home, Juggie?” Her breath is hot and vicious on his face. He groans, bowing under her, tugging at his own clothes to sate her. Palms on either side of his jaw, she forces him to look at her. It’s too much. It’s overpowering. There’s no room for sadness or emptiness when there’s this needy longing held right above him and he shoves his fingers back into her cunt, rubbing her right where she needs, his rings just barely edging inside of her slick. “I took off all my clothes and thought of you. Of you _watching_ me.” Her nails rake into his hair--just the edges. He wants more, for her to tear apart a place inside him. He tosses his beanie aside for better access, preening under the way her eyes light up and her nails dig in like his hair’s the lushest thing she can plant herself in.

 

The slickness between her legs is soaking him and he vainly hopes it’ll stain. “You want me to watch you like this? So hot and wet for me?” She moans, her forehead dropping onto his shoulder as her muscles start to tighten on his hand.

 

“I wanted you to draw me, alone. Just me and you in a room, and as you’d be sketching, the pages falling in a steady rhythm, you’d tell me to spread my legs and you’d see _exactly_ how wet I was.” The imagery flashes in his brain, short-circuiting him.

 

“God, yes, you’re so fucking wet for me, baby. Come. Come for me.”

 

A little whimper makes him work harder, kissing and sucking roughly at her skin.

 

“Isn’t that what we’d do in your dream? You’d spread yourself out for me and touch yourself ‘til you came? Is that why you came to my class? So I’d touch you just like this, fill you up so good? I want to know exactly what you feel like when you come.” Desperate for control, he pinches her breast, her cry coinciding with a violent tightening of her pussy around his fingers. “That’s it,” he murmurs, still furiously working her clit with his thumb, even as her breasts slide against him. “You feel so good, Betty.”

 

He leans back to get a look at her dewy, concentrated, rapture-wrecked face. It’s something he could paint a thousand times and never tire of.

 

“Beautiful. So good,” he murmurs, kissing her neck, letting her work down and sucking the sweat off her skin until she’s twitching, raising up to release him.

 

With dreamy eyes, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him deep and slow. A need has his hips thrusting up desperately until she edges back to help him wriggle his jeans down his legs. As he fumbles, almost free, she sits back up.

 

“That was amazing. Touching myself wasn’t the same, even if I pretended it was you or that you were watching me,” she smiles at the memory, losing herself in the post-orgasmic fog.

 

He’s so moved by her sweetness that he tips her chin back up with his clean hand to make her look him in the eye. “Tell me. What about you touching yourself, Betty? Did you like putting on show for me?”

 

Her eyes glint, dark and hard like granite and crystal as she slides down onto her knees, positioning herself between his. “I’d fuck my fingers until you finally marked our lust down on the page, shoving the whole canvas aside to stand up and rip your clothes off. And do you know what you’d do then, Juggie?” He shakes his head, already tilting his head to align for a kiss. “You’d fuck me, Juggie. Fuck me so hard I couldn’t stand straight. I’ve wanted you for so long and I’m tired of being kept waiting.”

 

As she grips his base, he hisses out a grateful curse. Any cohesive thought gets knocked right out of his head at the wet heat of her mouth around him. The room catches on fire, his skin practically raising off his body. There’s nothing to prove as his hands wind into her hair. Watching her would be such a blessing. Her sweet sucking pressure massages his insides. So flawed and free, her makeup smudged, her face glowing with the heat pushing through the both of them. She hums, vibration working its way along his whole body.

 

“Oh god, you have to stop or I’m gonna come.”

 

Doe eyes hook into him, almost sending him over the edge just with that glance. The infinite hues of _her_. Intelligence, beauty, passion.

 

“I want to be inside of you. Do you want that too?”

 

Her eyes flutter closed as she lets a low moan that makes his toes curl.

 

“You keep doing that and the only place I’m gonna come is your throat.”

 

A hum that feels like approval wraps around his cock and pulls on him. He sinks his hand into her hair to pace them. Everything’s so _good_. Her hair is so silky and soft, her tongue so wet and firm in its caresses along his dick.

 

She watches him, the rapt intensity of her attention prickling down his spine. Those eyes could kill him and he’d thank her for it. Her suction slicks so beautifully, slowing, like she’s hesitant to stop when he’s so close. But he’s on fire. He wants to be buried deep inside of her, pushing her to the edge at the same time he approaches his, but anything she’s willing and want to do, he’s game; he’s grateful. He wants to give himself to her until there’s nothing left but _them_.

 

She pops her mouth off his dick, her saliva dripping in a thick string that makes his cock bob as if searching for her again, even as her fist keeps stroking him.

 

“God, you’re fucking sexy, Betts.”

 

As if to prove it, she licks a wide stripe to tease him, clean him.

 

“ _Fuck._ Get up here.” She staggers a little as he pulls her into his lap, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Such a pretty girl, so sweet. There’s a carefulness in the way she straddles him, a shallow breath that fills him with pride, like she’s preparing herself for his girth, for the enormity of the situation physically and mentally. “How many times did you come when you were thinking about me?” Rocking them both, he places his tip against her waiting heat. “Did you come thinking of my cock thrusting deep inside you?”

 

“Uh-huh,” she breathes, fanning hot air on his face, grinding her heat on the edge of his length. “So many times.”

 

“Yes, I came for you, too. Couldn’t stop thinking about you--how you’d feel--how I feel.” She whines, thrusting harder and holding onto him with a desperation that makes him pump, searching for her heat.

 

“Do you want my come inside of you?” He gathers her hair at her neck, kissing her shoulders. A violent impulse unsheathes his teeth, and he bites, sucking a bruise in as she gasps for air. Anything he gets to do will be a blessing.

 

“Yes. I--I’m on the pill,” she murmurs, moving one of his hands over her breast.

 

“Good.” Kneading her chest, Jughead sucks a love mark on her shoulder, digging his nails into her sweet skin as she edges down on his dick. Every millimeter feels like another universe, better and better, until he can't go further and the heat and wetness stops encasing him.

 

“Are you--?” He pauses, shifting to let her raise up again. Their sexual history or lack thereof has little to no effect on how desirable he finds her, how _hot_ this is, but he does want to be conscientious.

 

Her nails scratch gently just behind his ears, forehead pressed against his. “Can you get in?”

 

Unsure, he tilts his hips up, but she’s _squeezing_ so tightly, she must not even realize. “Fuck--you’re so _tight_. You need me to--?”

 

She cuts him off with a kiss, rocking up and down enough that he can’t focus. Whatever’s happening inside of her isn’t letting him through. Maybe she came so hard…

 

“Fuck, I can’t--” he pants, trying to control himself. Betty clearly _wants_ this and so does he, but he doesn’t want to force it.

 

Betty kisses him deeply, planting the soles of her feet on either side of him. Then things get fuzzy, her hair curtaining them in so all he sees and feels is her face, her fingers, her tight sheathe, those sweet kisses that could drown him so easily.

 

“Tell me you want me,” she whispers, shifting so she’s holding herself up on his neck and shoulders. “Tell me how much you need me.”

 

“So much,” he chants, hands scrambling along her perfect, silky skin.

 

“Tell me how you came for me.”

 

Dizzy, he caresses her back. “I just kept thinking of you, of the way you looked at me. Of the way you made me feel: Alive. Burning. Golden.” His lips skid around her throat, her chest. “I came over your painting, wanted to mix myself into you.” More slow kisses, more moans and shallow grinding. “It’s like I was anchored to the bottom of a pool and saw you over the water, your beauty, your grace, your _power_ , your hair flowing out behind you as you dove in and saved me. Freed me from my chains. I’ve been floating towards you ever since. You’re my fucking air, Betty. You’re everything.” She shudders, sinking down and encasing him in violent heat. “F-- _fuck_!”

 

They both shiver, shudder, Betty breaking out in a sweat as she clings to him.

 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut tight against black spots before pulling back to cup her face, make sure she’s okay. Pain on the edge of pleasure dances across her expression and _fuck_ he wants to paint it.

 

His memory blackens with the image of her face, the feeling of having her so wholly given to him, of him giving himself, his everything to her.

 

“Beautiful. You’re so good, Betty. You’re my good girl. You knew exactly how much I needed you. I’ll give you what you need. You stay right here,” he urges, kissing her cheeks, rubbing her back, trying not to move as she moans, her muscles stretching around him. “When you move, I move.”

 

After a few moments, Betty rolls her hips and looks up, eyes deep, dark, and wet. “Move me, Juggie.”

 

Oceans tremble, trees shake, and he collides into her so naturally it’s like he never has to think. They kiss fiercely; the more they touch, the more they bleed together. Adrenaline pounds through his veins and he ends up lifting her hips and thrusting until she’s unable to keep her lips on him, both of them crying out into the night amidst wet slaps of skin on skin.

 

He shudders up into her, white hot heat crackling along his veins. Everything is her. Everything is white, every single color.

 

“I love you,” he pants, trying to brace her against his hard, powerful, emptying thrusts. He’s never said it. Never even _thought_ it outside of her. “Only you, Betty.”

 

She weeps, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “I love you.” Shushing her, he keeps her close, stroking her hair as the world fades back into its normal hues.

 

“You’re everything,” he promises, kissing her collar. No tension left in the world. Just Betty. Just warmth.

 

It was pretty emotional, an out-of-body spiritual experience, so he’s not worried about her tears or his confession.

 

“I’ve got you.”

 

Their heavy breathing creeps out into the room like boughs of a willow tree, shading and protecting them from the harsh light of the room.

 

Still clamped tight around him, Betty fixes him with an earnest stare. “I do love you. I know that’s crazy, but--I could. I do.”

 

“I do, too,” he assures her, stroking her hair behind her ear.

 

“You don’t even know me,” she laughs, embarrassed, legs shaking as she tries to unwind them.

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

Whatever he’s said seems to quiet her post-sex anxiousness, and she hugs him tightly, his arms squeezing her close until her breasts are pillowed against his chest and his face is buried in her hair.

 

Slowly, languorously, they make their way onto their sides on the bed, his fingers tracing the groove of her waist. “You need anything? Water? A towel?”

 

Part of him wants to peek under their legs for traces of blood, but she’s so beautiful and glowing that he can’t bear to tear himself away.

 

“No. This is nice,” she hums, snuggling in closer, absently stroking his chest.

 

He’s not sure how long they lay just looking at one another. The universe itself doesn’t exist. Just this. The quiet comfort of his leg tucked neatly between hers, their bodies woven together.

 

_I love you_ , he wants to say again, but he doesn’t want to break the seal on this reverent moment, so he keeps stroking her hair until her eyes close. Even as sleep tries to claim her, she reaches up for kisses, for affirmation that he’s there.

 

“I’m here, Betty.” He plants kisses on her jaw, little pecks on her nose that make it wrinkle adorably. “Stay with me.”

 

Exhausted, she nods, and Jughead nearly weeps, pulling her in closer despite the furnace of having their bodies so close together, and lets himself fall into the warm safety of darkness with her.

 

He wakes up with a sharp inhale to his phone buzzing on the end table. Betty shifts, neck elongating as she looks up and rearranges herself around him. They’d never turned off the lights after they made love, so the room has a soft yellow glow to it still.

 

“Just a text message from my roommate. He wants to know if he can come back.”

 

Betty pouts, nuzzling closer against him. “Does he have to?”

 

“No, I suppose I could let him sleep on the dorm couches tonight. Not like I haven’t done the same for him.” He rubs the drool from his mouth, worried about the bitter breath that comes with morning.

 

“No, we can’t do that.”

 

With a big sigh, Betty extracates herself from his side.

 

“Where are you going?” he asks, tension coiling in his bones.

 

“I have to get dressed if he’s going to come back, don’t I?”

 

His mouth opens and closes on a protest.

 

_You’re mine_ , he’d agree. His to look at, to touch and hold and worship. But he’s covered walls in her nudity. She’s bared herself for the class. Would it be worth the potential awkwardness of Archie seeing her breast to _not_ have her nude and pressed up against him?

 

Only if Archie’d see it sexually. And maybe he would. Conflict throbs in his brain and he doesn’t even register how tense he is until her fingers come up to smooth his neck and brow.

 

“Hey,” she starts softly, eyelashes delicately framing her beautiful, intelligent soul. “What’s wrong? You want me to stay like this?”

 

“Y--yes,” he chokes out, hugging her close.

 

“I do, too. But I might--I'd feel a little exposed if he came in. This is the most intimate thing I’ve ever done. I mean, I know I modeled, but that was--that was different. That was about knowing I could be myself. This intimacy is for us.”

 

He nods, overwhelmed with the urge to kiss her instead of speak.

 

“Okay. I’m gonna use the bathroom and get washed up. You can tell your roommate we’ll be decent when he gets back.”

 

They kiss, his soul momentarily leaving his body to reach for hers, and when she slips away he sinks back into the mattress of a soft little reality. Her bare backside is wonderful to watch, of course, her feet carefully navigating around their discarded clothes on the way to the restroom.

 

He sighs, sitting up and wiping his face, not ready to text Archie. Him and his muse. Her dress won’t be comfortable to sleep in at all, and neither would his button-up, so he stands up and rummages through his drawers, trying to find the softest thing he can. An old “S” shirt, his favorite. It belongs on her. His chest tightens with affection, with longing.

 

Rubbing it between his fingers, Jughead tries to steady himself against the mental image of Betty’s perfect legs peeking out from beneath its hem.

 

_Darling. Goddess. Muse._

 

He places the shirt carefully on what he’ll dub _her_ side of his bed and meanders back to find his boxers, wondering if she’ll want shorts, too, or if she’d prefer to slip back into her soaked underwear. Even the thought of the lace makes his fingers itch, so he snags the textured material and rubs it along his thumbs.

 

“Juggie?” His heart swells in his chest as he catches her curious form leaning in the doorway. “You okay?” Her gaze hovers affectionately on his face before shifting past him to the bed. “Oh, is that for me?”

 

With a quick kiss that has him shivering in its sweetness, she slips behind him to the mattress and sprawls out in a stretch, his shirt dancing on the edge of her fingertips with the pliancy of fresh dough.

 

“It’s so soft,” she sighs, rolling over in their nest, her hair falling off the edge of the bed in soft golden waves more radiant than sunlight.

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

She blinks, surprised by the gravel in his voice, the reverence, maybe.

 

“Can I draw you, Betty? Before Archie--before I text him. I want this...moment,” he frowns, wanting so much more than that.

 

She nods, spreading her legs.

 

If she touches her breast he might forget the drawing and fall upon her. But now-- _now_ he wants to feel this.

 

He grabs his sketchbook and a pencil, sitting on Archie’s bed, strokes flying across the page until he slides to the floor, needing another angle.

 

“I could draw you all day. All night.”

 

_Forever_.

 

Betty slinks down the mattress, just enough that her breasts arch up and her neck bows back at him entreatingly. “But then when would we get to cuddle?”

 

He laughs, his strokes sliding loose over the sketch. “I know it’s not the same, but sometimes it feels like I’m touching you. When I draw you, I mean. But touching you for real…” He sets down his pencil with finality. Everything else is gently set aside as he approaches his girl, blocking her pretty eyes from the harsh light above. “That’s what I _will_ do, for as long as you want me.”

 

Her nail works its way along his leg, curling each hair in its wake. “I want you.”

 

Relieved, Jughead leans over, pushing his hands down her thighs until he can bend them apart. She makes a little noise, almost a whimper, as he looks at her open sex.

 

“Are you feeling any...tenderness?” he asks cautiously, not sure how to phrase it.

 

Biting down a smile, she scoots up onto the bed so she’s not looking at him upside down and nods.

 

“Can I taste you?”

 

Considering, she lets her legs open. “Yes.”

 

He kisses her, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of her inspirational body, his shirt behind her shoulders. Open-mouthed kisses fuel him on, as do her hands working along the back of his neck, into his hair. There’s so much of her to touch, to feel. His hands run along her sides until she squeezes him with her knees.

 

_Closer_.

 

Palming her breasts, Jughead flicks her nipples with his thumbs, drawing out sharp gasps and needy whines until she’s bucking up towards him.

 

“Jug…”

 

“I know, baby. Be good. I’ll get you.”

 

He lowers his mouth to the dark, rosy nipple on his left, kissing and sucking until her breast is stretched. Crying out, Betty rocks her body up into him.

 

A firm hand pushes her hips back down to the bed. “ _Shh,_ you’re being so good for me. Just a little longer. I want to taste you here.” Her neck strains, eyes already blown black with need.

 

“I want you.”

 

“I know,” he promises, kneading her breast, plucking her nipples as she hisses and writhes, his mouth suckling back at her tit. The roundness of her is so satisfying. The way she pops when he lets go, body fizzling with anticipation of shaken champagne bottles. But he doesn’t want to keep her waiting. That energy swarming inside of them needs an outlet, so he lays loving kisses in a trail down the soft skin of her stomach, mouthing and sucking at her hips. Maybe tomorrow he’ll mark her. But not tonight. For now, he inhales deeply at her wet center, the buzz higher than any paint fumes could manage, and buries his mouth against her in a prayer.

 

Guttural, squirming, swarming energy washes over them.

 

_That’s it_ , he wants to say, suckling at her clit. _This is how I’ll comfort you._

 

Both hands wrapping around the flesh of her thighs, Jughead laps at her sex, smearing it on his chin and cheeks as he paints his name on her with his tongue.

 

“Juggie,” she moans, almost _pained_ , groping hard at her own breasts.

 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, taking a breath, kissing her thighs. They stare hard at each other, sharp electricity passing between them before he drags his tongue through her again, her eyes rolling back into her head.

 

This is rapture and heaven. This is Betty.

 

He works her indefinitely, the pressure of his chin causing her to choke on her praise and moans and rock against his face. There’s a small ache developing in his jaw and neck and he doesn’t even care at this point because she’s shoving her very essence into his eager mouth and that’s all that matters.

 

“P--pressure,” she begs, and he drags his nails across her thigh on instinct, the sharp intake of her breath spurring him to let go and slip his fingers into her pussy. “Fuck! Me! Ah!” Her cries swirl off into incoherent cries of pleasure, a symphony to his ears. He hums against her, sucking up what he can until she writhes and pushes back, needing gentler, soothing strokes.

 

“I love you, Betty,” he swears, kissing her clit.

 

Her arm goes up and over her forehead like she needs to open her lungs to breathe beyond their passion. “I love you too, Juggie. Now get up here and cuddle or I’m gonna need you to fuck me again, and then Archie will never get to go to bed.”

 

Smirking, he sucks his fingers clean and wipes his face off on her legs, ignoring the way his dick swings towards her like a compass pointing north as the crawl together. “Let me help you with this.”

 

They shimmy her into his shirt and manage to snag her underwear from the floor before he texts Archie for the go-ahead. Betty hums contentedly, snuggling back onto his chest. He could live forever like this, he thinks, gently combing his clean fingers through her hair.

 

“Do you want me to give you a hand?” she mumbles sleepily, hand trailing down to his boxer shorts.

 

“Later.” He smiles, kissing her brow. “Maybe after breakfast. Or lunch. I think there’s a milkshake with your name written all over it. Might help keep our energy up.”

 

Her smile curves along his skin. “You have any dinner plans?”

 

“You.” They squeeze each other tighter, exchanging kisses to each other’s brows and chests. “You’re amazing.”

 

“No, you are. I’m so glad I took a chance--I’m so glad I met you,” she sighs, already heavy with the allure of sated lust. The dew on her skin feels like it slicks them together.

 

“You found me. You have me.”

 

“About time.” Her little giggle makes his heart flutter, and he holds her even tighter.

 

The next time he stirs, Archie’s wincing for dropping his bag too loudly by his bed. Betty readjusts, but doesn’t open her eyes, burrowing closer into the nook she’s carved out on Jughead’s chest. Now that he knows she’s okay, Jughead relaxes, nodding hello at his clumsy, affable roommate.

 

Curious, Archie peers over, mouthing, “Is that her?” as he gestures to the closed sketchbook on Jughead’s desk. He nods. “ _Nice!_ ” Archie grins, beaming as Jughead buries his embarrassed smile into Betty’s hair. His roommate eventually switches off the lights and they all settle back into slumber, but Jughead can’t think of anything beyond how _elated_ he is. He could spend the rest of his life painting this feeling. As she snuggles in closer, he sighs, thankful that he even gets to experience it, knowing that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy early birthday/fandomversary to me! I've thrived on bughead's love and your support and would be honored if you let me know what you think. Hopefully this fic and/or my other works have brought you to a beautiful place in fandom and thank you for making it what it is for me. Y'all move me!
> 
> [ok so I can just picture Jughead doing those insane Lodge portraits and drawing a stupid monocle or mustache that can only be seen in certain lights on things. Betty would probably need to convince him to sell SOME paintings of her when they run out of room but even then she'd probably just be honored to have a mini shrine done by her love. I don't think Jug would ever be super comfy having Betty be naked in front of Archie so he might get exiled but what do you think? Anyway. Love. Art. Movement. Go listen to the Hozier song and share some love here or on tumblr @lovedinapastlife]


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